


To Boldly Go

by brokebakamountain



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: F/M, PWP, Ratchet being a dominant rebel, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, don't expect depth or greatness from this, like seriously no plot whatsoever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 16:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10925214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokebakamountain/pseuds/brokebakamountain
Summary: “Are you ready to boldly go where no man has gone before?” Ratchet asks, a playful lilt in his voice. My eyes roll so hard I suspect they might eject from my body. I never should have introduced him to Star Trek.(This is pure garbage that I wrote in an hour.)





	To Boldly Go

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy this sordid piece of filth, ya sickos.  
> I sure did.

It is July fourth, and I am alone with my thoughts in a broom closet that reeks of Lysol cleaning wipes. The only light provided is coming from the crack beneath the door that I’ve wedged shut with a mop carapaced in mildew. My mind takes me away from this closet, briefly, to an artificial memory of when this particular makeshift lock of a mop was actually used for its intended purpose. Vomit, no doubt. Or a soda spill. 

 

I tell myself to focus as I rake my nimble fingers through my brunette colored locks—mussing it up and breaking it free from its ponytail prison. As soon as my skull gets a moment of relief from the stress of the ponytail, I am reminded of why I always wear it up. My thick hair is getting in my eyes, tickling my nose, and irritating my senses beyond belief. The overworked band snaps in my grasp when I attempt to use it for its designed purpose again, and I can’t keep myself from snarling in frustration. 

 

This is all my fault; how utterly childish of me. My mind once again seeks to extirpate me from within by running from the very object of my desire. And here I am, hiding in a cleaning supplies closet, like a cowardly mouse too afraid and stubborn to surrender its life to the hungry cat. 

 

That is an entirely inaccurate comparison, though my anxiety is pushing me to feel that way. I know, indubitably, that he would _never_ harm me…

 

I can still feel his servos brushing the side of my face. It was a gentle caress familiar to all lovers—though entirely alien to me. Which is humorous, in a way, considering it was an _alien_ administering the gesture. 

 

It has been too long since I have felt this way about anyone—much less an alien-robot C.O.M. 

 

Optimus Prime’s rich voice echoes through my head, reminding me that they are not “ _robots_ ” but “ _sentient autonomous life forms_.” 

 

“Maggie…?” 

 

Oh god. He’s found me. 

Not only has he found my location, but he’s discovered me hiding like a petulant child.  

 

“Dr. Halcyon?” 

 

Fuck. _Fuck it all_. He’s referring to me formally now, which is dispassionately foreign after the past four weeks I have spent teaching him about human anatomy and Earth medicine. 

 

“Ratchet!” I call out from inside the broom closet, unable to muster a better response to his baffled inquiry. “I’m just looking for a few lysol wipes,” I lie to him, biting my lips and searching for the origin of the nostril burning smell that reeks within this cold, dark closet. “I noticed some… _dirt_ or something. On one of the lab tables.” I push a box of tissues off a shelf intentionally to make a racket, keeping up the act of searching for the wipes that I have just now located on the top shelf. “I’m a tad bit _OCD_!” I yell out as I adjust my clothing and wipe furiously at my eyes with my hands to fix any disobedient streaks of mascara or eyeliner.

 

Finally, I take a deep breath before relieving the crusty mop from its dutiful post at the door—Lysol wipes undertow. The extreme brightness of the laboratory stabs at my eyes for a moment or two before my pupils adjust, and I force an innocent smile on my face in the meantime.

 

Ratchet is in front of me now, arms crossed, body like a wall, and decompressed to a size more in my height range—only a foot or so taller than me. He demonstrated their ability to change size like this to me the second week of us working together. It made practicing on CPR dummies unfathomably easier.

 

“Maggie, look at me, _please_.” His vocal pattern is infuriatingly soft, coaxing my gaze away from the floor to meet his own. There is something in his optics, a farrago of concern and…adoration, perhaps? The thought stimulates a shiver down my spine. 

 

His gentle servos, no doubt capable of crushing my skull in their grasp if he so wished, reaches out to grab the container of Lysol wipes that I am guarding betwixt my arm and breast. In a way, it is a final barrier between us. A dam, waiting to be destroyed so the pent up emotions and love inside of me can flood this cursed laboratory—as well as the remainder of my finite existence. 

 

“Hiding from me in the broom closet is a little _gaucherie_ , don’t you think?” 

 

His servos find purchase on the container of wipes, and he tugs gently on it. Then, more forcefully when my grip tightens. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding as he finally manages to take the cleaning supply shield away from me. 

 

“I needed that.” 

 

A soft chuckle escapes his lips and in turn a genuine smile creeps along mine. 

 

“Deflection with mocking and humor. You are pervicacious, you know that?” 

 

He tosses the container behind him, his gaze locked onto mine. My eyes stray briefly to see where my makeshift shield landed before his metal grip on my chin forces my attention back to him. 

 

“I am too old and too obstinate to play games of the spark.” He says, his voice low and dripping in passionate intent.  

“Heart.”  I correct him weakly, my voice coming out as a thrilled squeak. 

“Do you desire me in a sexual manner?” Wow. Straight to the point with this one. I’m tempted to retreat into the closet again and never come out. 

“I…am attracted to you, yes.” If my heart explodes as I fear it might, at least I will die an honest woman. 

“Then let us proceed to the next step in mutual attraction.” His words are so clinical and true to scientific theory that, coming from anyone else, my figurative lady boner would deflate forthwith. 

 

But it isn’t anyone else. It’s _him_. 

 

My mouth opens and closes, struggling to form a proper sentence instead of unintelligible yammering. “I…I don’t know…how…?” That broken string of five words took 98% of my brain power to form. I’m thoroughly screwed. 

 

The chief medical officer to the Autobots, whom i have been teaching Earthen medicine and human anatomy to, is staring at me as though I just turned my body inside-out in front of him—which is something that, before, I actually had to convince him was not possible.

 

“You’ve never…had a sexual encounter among your species?” He questions, his metal eyebrow cocked and lips worried to a frown. 

 

I have to roll my eyes and stop myself from smacking him on the arm—which has found its way around my waist, drawing me closer to his metal frame. God, he’s so warm. 

 

“I’ve had plenty, believe me. I just…you’re…metal? How would this work exactly?” It dawns on me now that as much as I have taught Ratchet about my culture and species—I know next to nothing about his own. 

 

“Our anatomies are different, yes, but they are—“ His hand sneaks its way to cup my rear, pinching it gently before finishing his train of thought. “—compatible.” 

 

I don’t even know what that means, but I find myself caring less and less with each passing moment I spend in his arms. How did this even happen? I ask myself—a question that I had been avoiding while I hid away in my fortress of cleaning supplies. 

 

It began…naturally. 

 

When he first demonstrated their ability to change size, I couldn’t help but appreciate his frame in a new light. Relative to human anatomical proportions, Ratchet was burly. Ripped as a motherfucker. 

 

It would be foolish to believe that he never noticed my appreciative gaze, as often as I snuck in peeks as we worked together. But what really hammered the final nail in this sexually fucked up coffin was our decision to remain in company beyond working hours. It started out innocent enough, as all developing romances seem to. We saw a movie together in the recreation room of the abandoned military base. We had dinner together and shared our personal beliefs and philosophical opinions. Finally, we had gone star gazing outside of the base when we were strictly told, for security reasons, to do no such thing.

 

The autobot’s medical officer was more of a rebel than anyone would ever give him credit for, and perhaps I was the one who brought it out of him. 

 

Before I can give our relationship any more thought, Ratchet picks me up by the waist and turns us around to set me down on one of the operation tables that we had previously used to dissect donated corpses and organs. I feel equally exposed now with my yellow dress hiked up and bunched over my thighs as he nestles himself between them, his metal frame heating up a tad too much to be comfortable. As though he is reading my thoughts, I hear a soft whirr as his cooling fans begin to kick on. 

 

Ratchet rocks his hips gently to grind against the core of my body which desperately approves of the boisterous friction. A small gasp escapes my lips and my grip on the edge of the table tightens until my knuckles turn white. He pauses, one of his large servos coming up to brush my hair away from my face as he studies my features with an intensity I have never witnessed before. My lips stay parted as my eyes follow his mouth, a familiar hunger growing in the pit of my stomach. He notices my primal change in demeanor and twists my hair between his fingers, holding it firmly in his grasp. Ratchet tugs sharply on my hair, my head obeying his command and tilting upward to give him better access to my pulsating throat. 

 

He ignores my offering to capture my quivering lips instead. 

 

His hips shift again as he settles into a more comfortable angle against my womanhood which illicits a tiny gasp from me that he swallows greedily. Ratchet’s lips are warm to the touch, and smoother than any metal surface i have ever come into contact with. As his glossa parts my lips it occurs to me that perhaps he will taste of motor oil or something equally unpleasant, but my worries vanish when his glossa massages my tongue gently. He is tasteless, and probably more disgusted by the germs and moistness of my mouth than I should be of his. His free hand that was gripping the edge of the table beside mine comes up to cradle my face as the other tightens its grip on my hair. His kiss becomes more urgent and I gleefully realize that he is not disgusted by any part of me whatsoever. 

 

My hands are the first to begin roaming adventurously. I grasp at his chest plating and rub at the seams in his armor—trying desperately to keep up with his ministrations and pleasure him as vehemently as he is pleasuring me. 

 

“Compatible.” I gasp when his mouth releases me to begin grazing and suckling my neck. His glossa traces my jugular pulse before nipping at it harshly, causing my grip on his shoulder to falter and my thighs on either side of him to quake with need. 

 

“Is that a question or a statement?” He rumbles in my ear, making my head spin in circles and my sex ache with forceful need.

 

“Question.” I answer, unable to form sentences in my current state of arousal. 

 

I hear a distinct “click tsche tsche” familiar to the sound Cybertronians make as they transform before I notice him answering my question through action. The codpiece of his armor folds away and out pops the most extravagant looking dildo I’ve ever seen in my life. Though it’s not a dildo, it’s his— 

 

“We call it a spike.” 

 

He’s read my mind again. He takes a step back to allow me to study his sexual anatomy properly, and I can barely contain my glee as I tentatively touch it with the tips of my fingers. Something close to a hiss escapes his lips and his member twitches before my fingers, a bit of precum beading at the slit of his head. His “spike” is a soft white grey, like the rest of his armor, with red biolights and translucent tubes running along the shaft. 

 

Before I can study it any more, Ratchet’s engine revs and he closes the gap between us, gently pushing me until i acquiesce to the position he has in mind and lean back against the operating table. For a brief moment, I think of myself as an abducted human being about to be probed by creepy, heartless little green men. Who knew aliens were actually capable of being dipped in sex appeal? What’s more, aliens that can transform into automobiles? Freud would have a field day with me, were he alive and here to witness what is about to happen.

 

Ratchet stirs me from my imagination by leaning over me, one of his hands twisting my hair in his grasp again and the other tearing my soaked panties away from my body. 

 

“Are you ready to boldly go where no man has gone before?” Ratchet asks, a playful lilt in his voice. My eyes roll so hard I suspect they might eject from my body. I never should have introduced him to Star Trek. 

 

“Captain’s log, July fourth, 2017.” Ratchet teases my pulsing entrance with the head of his spike, dipping in and then pulling out to rub teasing circles around my clit. 

 

“I am about to have a close encounter of the seventh kind.” I moan as his ministrations slowly build that delicious tension in my nerves. “I can only hope that this experience leaves me satisfied, and exquisitely sore.” My voice breaks as his free servo flies to my clitoris, stimulating it gently yet unyieldingly, the head of his spike still teasing my folds. 

 

“Sore, indeed.” Ratchet punctuates his sentence by thrusting his spike inside of me when I least expected it. The air is stolen from my lungs as I gasp in pleasure, never recalling being filled as much as I am by him. His optics stare at my unabashed features in fascination, a guttural rumble rolling through his body as he enjoys the warm, wet tightness of mine. 

 

We fucked on the operating table as nature intended—following the queues of each other and respecting one another’s boundaries after prodding them. 

 

What began on the cold, sleek surface of the operating table ended over his now unfastidious desk. Papers and pens littered the floor—tossed aside in a moment of passion as Ratchet and I sought new angles and positions in which to explore each other’s bodies. 

 

My breathing begins to adjust back to normal as my mouth slowly closes shut. I can still feel Ratchet throbbing inside of me, which only serves to prolong the spasms and shocks of my own orgasm. He slips out of my entrance with a satisfying “pop” and his codpiece begins to fold back over his organ—which did not deflate like human male genitalia. 

 

I can feel something sticky dripping from my labia, and my fingers shakily seek out the cause. When I bring them back up to my face, I notice the blue hue in color and a sudden thought strikes me like a lightning bolt. 

 

“Is this stuff…poisonous to me?” Ratchet grimaces at the tone of fear in my voice and gently shakes his head. “No. Not at all. I’ve run tests.” He raises my hand to his lips and licks the fluid from my fingers seductively before nipping the tips of them gently. 

 

“You _expected_ this to happen?” My voice is incredulous and tinged with surprise. “How _presumptuous_!” 

 

Ratchet smirks, the kind of smirk I haven’t seen since his incident with Synth-En, and mutters with licentious fervor, “I’m what you might refer to as _a kinky bastard_.” I’m sitting up now, my legs kicking underneath the desk gently—a nervous habit of sorts. I scrutinize the room, searching for my ravaged panties, but the lab is such a mess with all of the papers strewn about that I can’t seem to find them. 

 

“Looking for these?” Ratchet asks, taking the soiled fabric out of a subspace compartment.

“Kinky bastard, _indeed_.” I mumble playfully. 

“Ratchet, get the Lysol wipes. Unless you want to explain what all of this blue shit is to Agent Fowler.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Namaste or whatever.


End file.
